


Play it for Me

by bioloyg



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Kissing, Landlord Derek, M/M, Pianist Stiles Stilinski, Pianist!Derek, Shy Stiles, Teacher Stiles, music fic, musician!derek, neighbor fic, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4680980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the longest time it sat in the corner of his apartment hidden beneath a blanket, gathering dust. Sure, every once in a while he'd uncover it, tune it, and clean it off, but that was the extent of it. He could never force himself to sit down and play, get lost in the movements of his hands and the melody of a song.<br/>~<br/>OR the one where Derek is a landlord and plays piano and someone takes notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play it for Me

**Author's Note:**

> For whatever reason I couldn't get the idea of Derek broodily playing piano out of my head.
> 
> ALSO, I'd like to preface this by saying I haven't taken a serious music class since like fifth grade (around a decade ago) and that I'm sure I have butchered some things. That being said, I did _try_ to look some things up, and I definitely listened to all of the songs I put in here. You guys might've even heard a few of these, some of em are really popular.
> 
> If anyone is interested I'll go back and provide links for the songs, but for right now y'all are gonna have to rely on google.

For the longest time it sat in the corner of his apartment hidden beneath a blanket, gathering dust. Sure, every once in a while he'd uncover it, tune it, and clean it off, but that was the extent of it. He could never force himself to sit down and _play_ , get lost in the movement of his hands and the melody of a song.

His mother used to play on special occasions, most notably when Derek had one of his recurring nightmares. She was usually awake when he found his way to her, like she had some motherly sixth sense, and she'd just scoop Derek into her arms and carry him downstairs to put his mind at ease with her musical skill. Their house had been big enough that the songs his mother played stayed well enough within the realm of the parlor.

As soon as he was old enough to reach the pedals Talia taught him everything she knew, everything she had time for, everything Derek paid attention to. Once he'd made it to high school though their lessons petered to a halt – young Derek too busy to spend time on such a trivial pursuit, one his friends had thought was stupid.

Looking back on it his heart throbs, phantom guilt wrapping around it. His mother must have been heartbroken that what little they shared fell to the wayside. That such talent and potential curled up and withered, along with other things.

So, it's been quite some time when he finally pulls the cover off for good. Almost a decade to be exact. Derek's not sure what prompts him to play again, but he doesn't allow himself to second guess it. He props open the lid to the piano and pushes back the fall, exposing the now yellow-ish ivory keys, and runs a ginger hand over the tops of them. His touch is feather-light enough to leave them undisturbed.

At first it's hard. He still can't play, just sits on the bench and just _stares_ for a while. Most of the sheet music for his favorite songs burned with his childhood home so he's running on memory alone, which is part of the reason he found it so difficult to play again in the first place. The only reason the piano survived was because it had been in storage ever since Derek lost interest – his mother didn't play as much after that, didn't have the time, didn't _make_ the time. And despite how sour his stomach feels at the thought, Derek still thanks whoever is out there in the vast cosmos for the small miracles like having this one last piece of his mother.

~

Eventually, when his apprehension unfurls and his mind is ready to begin unpacking what it stored away all those years ago, he starts with with some scales, getting acquainted with all the keys again. It's not as enjoyable or fulfilling as he thought it would be in the beginning. There's no contentment thrumming just below the surface of his skin like there had been when his mother was pressed along his side guiding him. It only gets worse when he moves onto double notes and starts tripping up, but eventually, after some time, he gets back into the swing of things.

As the months pass he gets better, given his diligence and persistence. He's almost back to where he left off, and things fall back into place for him – much to Mrs. Gilman's dismay. On a good day she only knocks on his door, or their adjoining wall, once. On days like last Tuesday, she calls the landlord, which she has yet to figure out is _him_ , and tells him he needs to “shut up the kid playing piano in 4c before [she blows] an eardrum.”

Regardless of the complaints from his wrinkled and possibly senile critic he pushes forward, through the pain of reopened wounds and the empty feeling in his chest. He starts by playing simple things like _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ and _Brahm's lullaby_  when he's babysitting Erica's son. Little Lucas loves it, and Derek benefits from the unfettered enjoyment the toddler receives. Granted the kid can't talk, but that's not what's important. Derek's more focused on making sure he doesn't get his sticky hands all over the keys after lunch time, and in the back of his mind he acknowledges that it's nice to have an audience that doesn't threaten to call the police every time he plays.

On one notable, and slightly drunk, occasion after ordering take out Derek plays the genuine _C_ _hopsticks Waltz_ (chopsticks included, even though he doesn't quite remember all the bits and pieces). Other nights, when he's willing to reminisce, or unable to stop his mind from wandering down certain paths, he'll even play the songs his mother used to love. He was never particularly into some of her more sappy choices like _If I give you my heart_ , but, knowing how much she adored it, he can't help but sit down and remember how strong the partnership his parents had was.

~

It's a breezy autumn afternoon when he gets his first request. Derek has the doors to his porch open to allow the crisp air into his apartment, and because he's watched about five billion cartoon specials with Lucas within the past week he has plenty of songs stuck in his head. So he sits down, barely paying any mind to the open doors and cracked windows, and plays Tchaikovsky's _Waltz of the Flowers_.

Only when he has built his way up to the end does he snap back into reality and notice that someone is clapping for him. Honest to god clapping. After the moment of tense horror brought on by the thought of someone listening to him play – actually _paying attention_ – his chest practically swells with pride, and if anyone else were there they'd be able to tell you about how pink his cheeks get. But, all of it is quickly squashed when he hears the hard _tap tap tap_ of knuckles against his door.

Derek rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the bench, heading for the door. “Sorry Mrs. Gilman, I'll be sure to –” His train of thought is interrupted by the sheet of paper being slid underneath his door. He barely stifles his following sigh. “We've moved on to written complaints.”

When he opens the hastily folded note he finds not a complaint but a question. It reads: _You play so beautifully. If you're taking requests, could you play Liebestraum No. 3 Love Dream? If that's too much I get it, hearing you play anything is great._

Derek must stare at the note much longer than he means to because by the time he gets his wits about him to open the door and confront the author of the note no one is anywhere to be found. He almost doesn't believe the note is real, takes a while to gather his nerves and quell his sudden stage fright, but he does play it.

At this point he's downloaded an app that turns sheet music for him, one that uses the microphone to detect when he needs a page flipped. So it's hardly an issue for him to find the sheet music, program it into the app, and play the song.

It doesn't go as smoothly as he wants it to, ever the perfectionist, and he hates the way his palms get damp because of how nervous he is playing for someone else, who is presumably above the age of two. However, by the end of it he's still relatively proud of himself. The round of applause and shouts of “bravo” coming from a balcony somewhere above him at the end don't hurt either. It's always nice to be appreciated.

~

As winter rolls in, so do the requests. Some are more recent pieces, like _1000 miles_ – which he rolls his eyes at – or _Metamorphosis_. Others are classics like _Für Elise_ and _Grande Valse Brilliante_. Each and every one he gets he enjoys in some way or another, some of them ones he'd almost forgotten. His anonymous audience member tests him, challenges him with pieces that require nothing short of his full attention, and Derek loves it.

He had plenty of time to bury how much music meant to him over the past eight or so years, but this mysterious person somehow draws it back out of him song by song. Of course Derek still plays some of his favorite pieces as well, and is praised all the same, but he enjoys it more when he gets feedback about the last song he played on some of the notes with new requests.

His only qualms center around the fact that he can't seem to catch the person leaving notes, both to thank them and possibly invite them over to play since they seem to know so much about piano.

Somewhere along the line, as Christmas draws nearer and nearer, the mystery music afficianado’s choices seem to dip into softer, sadder tones. Each time Derek plays one of the special requests he's left feeling hollowed out, raw, and vulnerable to the cold winter air. And each time he plays a happier melody in a major key to bring things back up, he gets another melancholy recommendation.

Derek’s not quite sure how to feel when two days before Christmas Eve he gets another request, the first movement of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata._ He’s always taken music seriously, never one to underestimate its power to bring you into new worlds and unfound parts of yourself, so he’s apprehensive. While thoroughly challenged, he’s not sure he wants to play anymore of these gloomy requests, not when they’re so viscerally mood shattering, not when the reason he took up piano again was because his wounds had finally begun to scab and heal. Sure the pieces don’t have words, but that won’t stop his mind from traveling down dark paths.

He doesn’t think he can pull off being detached enough to walk away from a song like this unscathed. For a while his fingers just ghost over the keys as he thinks it over, well aware of how the piece goes. Part of him could _very_ easily say no, pop open a beer, and relax on the couch before his birthday and holiday festivities wipe him out. He has no issue telling people no 90% of the time, _but_ the other part of him can’t quite get past the way this request is written.

Usually Derek’s left blushing from head to toe when faced with at least a solid paragraph of flattery and praise, and on occasion tips and pointers, but this note lacks its usual color. Where there was often embellishment, today he finds nothing in the dry and succinct request that reads: _Beethoven’s_ _Moonlight Sonata in C-sharp minor, first movement please._

In the end, after careful deliberation that lasts so long he’s worried the person may no longer be in their apartment, he sits down at the piano, takes a deep steadying breath, and begins to work. Usually there’s not much room for him to think when he’s concentrating on the keys in front of him - or he never has anything else of merit to snag his attention, but today his mind wanders to a space where he can’t help but wonder what’s happening in this person’s life. Not all of their choices were bright and cheery in the beginning of this prolonged concert that they have going on, but the string of despairing songs has extended well over a week now. There must be _something_  wrong in their life, right?

Whatever the case, Derek doesn’t take the request lightly. He puts his all into it and the outside world quickly fades into the backdrop only to be replaced by the feel of the smooth keys beneath his fingertips, the subtle vibrations that mingle with his soul, and above all the sound of the music as it lingers in the air even after his hands have moved on. Derek unknowingly becomes so lost in the music, admittedly not for the first time, that when he comes out of it his breathing is slightly ragged and his vision is muddled by unshed tears.

Another thing he misses while focused on his own upset equilibrium is the sound of someone crying outside his door. That is, until a particularly loud hiccup gone sob escapes the person in the hall. Derek pushes away from the piano, almost afraid of it, and clenches his eyes shut until the water goes away. When he’s sure the crying isn’t a figment of his overworked imagination he gets up to look out of the peephole, then opens the door when he finds nothing. Except in doing so a pale, freckled, brown-haired man lands on his floor.

The man looks stricken, eyes slightly puffy and red and cheeks tainted pink with hair that’s just shy of artfully mussed. He quickly scrambles to his feet while Derek’s mouth hangs ever so slightly ajar. “I – I’m so sorry,” the young man stutters in a scratchy voice as he backs up.

“ _You_? Have you been –?” Derek would finish but between the look on the man’s face and the look _of_ the man’s face he’s finding himself at a sudden loss for words. He curses himself for it now, as he will later, because it only gives the unnamed party time to bolt. He quite literally runs to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

Derek is quick to follow, only a second or two behind from the time it took him to decide how important it was he knew this man, but the guy is a lot faster than he looks and disappears into door 5c just as Derek gets to the fifth floor hall.

He knocks once. Nothing.

Twice. Silence.

After the third knock he mutters, “Thanks,” and trudges back down to his home.

~

Daydreams of honey brown eyes and star speckled skin hang in Derek’s mind for days. Some of them involve heated arguments about music and others… well, let’s just say Derek is very confused about his brain's capacity to latch on to beautiful people he’s seen for all of thirty seconds.

Sadly, the New Year comes and goes and Derek has yet to receive another note or request. No one listens in on his private shows anymore, there is no clapping, there are no tips or pointers, there is only silence. Except for Mrs. G, but Derek has learned to block her out.

It’s not that Derek misses having someone to recommend songs to him and joke one-sidedly via written note, but he can’t deny that he got some level of enjoyment out of it. Derek never shared his musical skill with his friends because they made fun of it, and granted it’s been _years_ since that happened, but part of him knows that even if they enjoyed it now they’d never truly be able to appreciate it. Somehow a voiceless, nameless being did, and, who is he kidding he _does_ miss it. Misses having that soundboard to bounce ideas off of, because even if Derek couldn’t voice those thoughts that person always _knew_ somehow, could hear it in the way he played.

Derek thinks about looking up the man’s name, after all he does own the building, but he feels like that’d be cheating – or mildly illegal. Sighing, he rests his head against the armrest of his couch and twiddles his thumbs. Maybe he should write a note and slip it under Mystery guy’s door. It could work, right?

No, no, that’s a bad idea. The guy is probably embarrassed or something.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and grumbles something unintelligible. Maybe he should… no, not that either.

He heaves another sigh and gets up, moving towards the piano on the other side of his living room. A few keys bow beneath the pressure of his touch, humming their respective songs into the still air. One particular note sounds repeatedly as he thinks.

Sometimes Derek wishes there was a handbook on how to handle people and awkward situations, but he doubts there’s one on “how to approach the guy who’s been leaving you constructive criticisms and requests” for pianists.

More keys lower beneath his rough hands and soon enough Derek is playing a skeletonized version of _Spring Waltz_. He looks down at his fingers that have somehow begun moving of their own accord and frowns before sitting more properly and starting again. Just as he’s beginning someone’s knuckles rap against the door behind him.

Slightly on edge, Derek’s fingers come down on the keys harshly. He groans and sends a silent apology to the piano, running his hand along the top of it sweetly as he rises. It _could_ be a tenant looking for help, but Derek is willing to bet it’s the lovely Mrs. Barbra Gilman.

He closes his eyes as he reaches the door and grumbles, “Mrs. Gilman, I know you hate the music, but I’ve had a very long day today,” as he opens it.

Instead of meeting piercing blue eyes surrounded by folds and wrinkles there’s a man about an inch taller than him staring, half amused, half apprehensive. The mystery man lets out a huff and says, “I’m not sure who Mrs. Gilman is, but I’m willing to bet she has bad taste if she doesn’t enjoy how well you play.”

Derek flounders and raises his eyebrows, caught off guard by the seemingly unending string of words. “Uh.”

“Right, sorry, we don’t even know each other. That was weird. Was that weird?” The man babbles and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just – I wanted to apologize?”

He’s never been good with people and that’s not about to start now. There’s a reason he and Lucas get along so well and it’s because neither of them form sentences above ten words long. “Apologize?”

The guy shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Yeah, I – my requests. I didn’t really mean to put in so many. I’m sure it was annoying; it got a little out of hand to be honest. I of all people should know not to take advantage of musicians or artists expecting them to provide something for me without paying, and then camping out by your door? Man it – that had been a bad night. I’m so sorry.”

He backs away from Derek’s door for the second time, sheepishly turning back to where he came from. Before he can get too far Derek blurts out, “Wait.”

It must’ve come out more harshly than he meant it to because the man curls inward on himself and turns around slowly, like he’s trying not to offend.

Derek lets out a deep breath and steps into the hall. “Who – what’s your name?”

The man’s mouth forms a perfect O as it hangs open. His lips are cute, Derek thinks. He’s shaken from the stray thought when the guy squeaks out, “Stiles. You’re not – you won’t report me to the landlord or anything right? For being annoying...” He wrings his hands repeatedly and Derek can’t help but trace the movement with his eyes.

He tears them from the man’s spindly fingers and smirks slightly. “It’d be kinda hard considering I’m him.”

“Shit,” the man hisses beneath his breath. “Listen –”

“Do you want to come in?” Derek interrupts. As much as he’s enjoying the red tint that’s creeping down Stiles’ neck he doesn’t think he can handle much more.

Stiles lets out every bit of air in his lungs. “You want me to come in?”

Derek nods carefully and speaks softly, “Only if you want to. I was about to play.”

“Oh,” it’s both relieved and tinted with joy. “I would love that actually.”

He holds out a hand to lead Stiles into the apartment and shuts the door behind them. Stiles turns in a circle, taking in the expansive apartment, and freezes when his eyes land on the piano. From what Derek has seen so far, everything about this _Stiles_ is noisy. His gestures are broad and expansive, his eyes are bright and captivating, and he _talks_ _so **much**_ in short spans of time. But as he drinks in the planes and curves of the piano it’s as if he’s a different person entirely, devoid of any movement other then that of his chest as he breathes, and even that is questionable.

Derek’s not sure what to make of the man, but he knows he could easily be done for if Stiles just said the right things.

He turns back to look at Derek with focused and imploring eyes as he reaches the piano’s edge; his hands hover just above the keys. “May I?”

All Derek can do is nod, hands firmly situated behind his back. The only other person he’s let touch the piano is Lucas, and that was only because he was sitting in Derek’s lap while he played. It’s not that he doesn’t want other people to touch it so much as he wants them to respect it, respect what it means to him. He feels like Stiles would be able to figure out it.

Graceful fingers, somehow so different from moments ago, skate across the keys playing the beginning notes of _Gymnopédie No. 1_ , a song he had requested earlier in the week.

Stiles’ whole body goes slack and he lets out a harsh breath, affected by the sound of the music so close.

“That’s a beautiful song,” Derek provides as he moves closer.

Stiles looks back over his shoulder and his eyes clear as he sees Derek nearing him. He stands abruptly and shakes his head. “I’m – I don’t even know your name and I’m touching your piano like it’s mine I’m sorry.”

“I said it was okay,” he assures him quietly. “And my name is Derek.”

“Derek,” he says, lifting his head slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles at the man in front of him and sits at the bench. “Hello.” His fingers waterfall across the keys as he looks to his side. “Sit down.”

Stiles bites his bottom lip, “Here?”

“Anywhere you want.”

Stiles chooses a windowsill by the piano’s open mouth. His hands, while firmly situated in his lap now, look for all the world like they’d rather be anywhere else. Most likely back on the piano. Derek has half the mind to let him play, but he was just starting something before Stiles knocked on his door.

“How do you feel about Chopin?” Derek wonders aloud as he plays at the keys childishly.

His guest smiles lightly, “Depends on the piece.”

“Spring Waltz.”

Stiles ducks his head to hide his growing smile. “Thought I heard the beginnings of that.”

Derek hums and begins to pick up where he’d began. He’s nervous, as per usual when faced with a live human being to survey his work – whatever that may be – but there’s also a faint buzz beneath his skin not much unlike when he used to play for his mother. When he looks up the feeling flares brightly in is chest. Stiles’ eyes are fixed intensely on Derek’s but there’s no hunger, it’s something more terrifying. Respect maybe? Adoration?

He breaks the open gaze, even though he doesn’t want to, and finishes out the song. There’s really no reason he should be feeling so much just from one piano song and a couple serious moments of eye contact. But, Derek is willing to admit that it’s more than just that. Stiles, though he doesn’t seem to believe this, is not just some random passerby demanding Derek's expertise while giving nothing in return.

Stiles is something more powerful because somehow, while hidden behind a door and a pen, he’s managed to bring a little piece of Derek back from the grave where it was buried with his mother and the rest of his family. And he knows it sounds so cheesy, like it’s something you only hear about in romance novels you find in the dollar section of used book stores, but it's real and Derek appreciates it _so much._ There’s no one else he could find to share this with that would get it, that would understand and help him keep going when he needed direction.

Wow, he needs to get his thoughts in order.

“You okay? Got a little quiet there.” Stiles asks, closer now, pressing a soft hand over his now still one.

Derek jolts the tiniest bit and looks up from where he’d been staring into space. “Distracted.”

Stiles nods, knowing without any other words having to be uttered for him to understand. “Want me to leave?”

“No,” Derek sighs. If he were being honest he’d like Stiles to stay for hours.

Stiles seems to understand this too. “Thank you for playing for me.”

“It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s everything to me,” Stiles responds evenly, honestly, quietly. “It’s nice to hear piano when you’re not the one playing or doing the work.”

He turns his body towards Stiles, “You must play a lot.”

“I do,” Stiles confesses breathlessly as he lets Derek’s hand go. “Being a music teacher _and_ tutor is not all it’s cut out to be.”

Derek grimaces and thinks back to his first few lessons, as well as the way Lucas smashes at the keys when he’s trying to lift himself up the piano. “I can’t imagine.”

“Don’t,” Stiles laughs. “But really, I don’t want you to think I take this for granted.”

“Somehow the thought never crossed my mind.” Derek stares openly at his guest, taking in Stiles’ features with the same reverie he had for Derek’s piano. Stiles is tall, and a little lanky, but there’s strength in his stature, a quiet surety, and something that’s making Derek feel like it’d be okay to spill all his secrets. He keeps them bottled for the time being and looks down, but he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ cheeks have flushed again.

“Your requests have been… interesting.”

Stiles’ laugh sounds like liquid gold. “You must be referring to _1000 miles_.”

Derek hums amusedly, “There were others.”

Scoffing, Stiles says, “I have wonderful taste.”

“Never said you didn’t.” He trails off for a moment and before he can think better of it he questions, “But – what was the sudden change in tone?”

The smile slowly fades from Stiles’ face and he rubs the back of his neck again. “Ah, that.”

Derek can sense his unease, is almost about to take it back, but as Stiles drags his hand along the piano’s edges again Derek can tell he’s only finding the right words.

“My,” he sighs and stops for a moment, then begins again, “My mother died around Christmas when I was in middle school. She’d been one of my biggest supporters, loved it when I played Beethoven for her. That – that last piece kind of resonates with me. I remember a professor of mine talking about _Moonlight_ and how brilliant Beethoven was for switching up the usual way sonatas were written. ‘It goes slow, slow, fast,’ he said.”

Stiles’ train of thought seems to taper off for a moment but he looks up with a sad smile after a bit. “S’kinda how my mom went. Slow, slow, and then fast. Almost thought she’d make it for a while.”

He clears his throat after a minute, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. Kill the mood I mean.”

“It’s okay. I get it, believe it or not.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow, so he elaborates, even though he doesn’t really want to. “My mom was the one who taught me how to play. I stopped playing in high school and shortly after she and a large portion of my family d – passed away.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles offers, moving to sit beside Derek.

He shrugs off the feeling. “I couldn’t even look at the piano for a while, and sometimes it still hurts, but I do it anyway – for her.”

“To remember,” Stiles finishes sadly.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “To remember.”

~

Stiles comes around more often after that. For a while he’s unsure in Derek’s apartment, wary of something, possibly unsure of how he fits in – whether it be by the lamp or on the couch. He warms up gradually, but it isn’t until one afternoon where both of them are playing at Derek’s piano that he becomes more confident in Derek’s space.

Somehow they’ve delved into all their favorite childhood starter songs and then they’re playing _Heart and Soul_. Stiles plays one-handed to Derek’s right and elbows him, trying to throw him off. Derek can’t remember the last time he’s had so much fun playing, and soon enough it turns into outright sabotage between the two of them and the piece is no longer intelligible.

He scoops up one of Stiles’ hands with his and furrows his eyebrows, but there’s no heat there. Rather then pull away Stiles narrows his eyes in some sort of silent challenge and begins playing again with his free hand. Derek lifts his head ever so slightly and joins in with his own free hand.

They maintain eye contact, and neither pulls away. In fact, they seem to gravitate towards one another. It’s still just competitive space hogging, until Stiles grabs his other hand and they’re left holding one another under the pretense of having won some game.

Stiles’ eyes flicker to Derek’s lips, and it’s all over after that. He falls forward into Derek’s orbit and presses their lips together. It’s brief, and as Stiles backs away he almost thinks it was on accident. Stiles looks like he might want to take it back, worried he crossed some invisible line, but Derek doesn’t give him the time to go running up a flight of stairs again.

His worry has him kissing Stiles like he’s terrified everything in his hands will shatter, but Stiles squeezes his hands once in silent assurance and moves them around Derek's neck, pulling him in. Fingers tug gently at Derek’s hair experimentally and he opens his mouth in response, letting Stiles deepen the kiss. Their tongues mingle effortlessly much like their respective notes earlier, and Derek can’t help but think that they would work really well together, in aspects other then music.

He tightens his grip on Stiles and hoists him into his lap, chasing the taste of him on his tongue. The only reason he breaks away is to kiss the length of Stiles’ neck, the very same one that had been mocking him for weeks as Stiles reclined, listening to Derek play. He backs away to examine his work, smiling childishly when he sees the red mark blooming across the pale skin there. But Stiles quickly pulls him back into a kiss and sweeps his tongue across the inside of Derek’s bottom lip, which he’s surprised to find sends goosebumps rippling across his skin.

They’re only broken from their lusty haze when Stiles’ back hits the edge of the keys, which is Derek’s fault considering he’d only tilted Stiles backward to lift him up. Both of them let out a breathy laugh and extricate themselves from the other’s hold.

“So…” Stiles leads.

“Yeah,” Derek answers.

A tentative step is taken, but Derek isn’t the one who moves. He closes his eyes when Stiles brushes his elegant fingers across Derek’s lips, he holds his breath when he feels him leaning in. It’s only a peck, but it takes the wind right out of Derek’s lungs.

“Is this too much?” Stiles whispers against him, leaning back slightly.

Derek barely has time to breathe after he says, “No,” before Stiles’ mouth is on his again, so he speaks between kisses. “I,” kiss. “Want to,” one more. “Take you,” a filthy one that leads to Derek being pressed against a wall. “On a _date_ ,” he finishes with a pointed look.

“I’d like that,” Stiles’ answers, smile mellowing out into something softer.

“Preferably somewhere I don’t have to look at your hands,” Derek mutters, almost bitterly.

Stiles looks down at them, confused for a moment, but when he looks back up it’s like he’s just found out he has a superpower. “You have a problem with my hands?”

“Only when they’re on my piano.”

Those same hands find their way to Derek’s face, bracketing him. “S’cos you’d rather they were on you.”

“Something like that,” Derek responds before kissing Stiles again. It’s a thank you, a promise, and so much more.

~

For the longest time it sat in the corner of his apartment hidden beneath a blanket, gathering dust. Sure, every once in a while he'd uncover it, tune it, and clean it off, but that was the extent of it. He could never force himself to sit down and _play_ , get lost in the movements of his hands and the melody of a song.

Derek’s mother used to play it on special occasions, but now he does. Its pleasant melodious singing fills an apartment that upgraded from _his_ to _theirs._  And on the days Derek can’t bring himself to play, or even look in its direction, Stiles comes to him offering support or his own hands.

Their space isn’t big enough for him to go unheard while playing in the night, but Derek is willing to let that slide because in the mornings he wakes up to Stiles sprawled out in their bed hogging the covers. It looks a lot more beautiful than it sounds, much like when Stiles begins to teach Lucas how to play piano.

It’s loud, it’s messy, and sometimes it hurts, but in the end Derek’s just happy his life finally switched to major key.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are subscribed to me in hopes of new fics here is another excerpt from that Historical/Vampire AU I have going on.
> 
>    
>  _“I said listen. If you muck this up for me I will kill you. Do you understand?”_  
>  His charm only works for a moment, halfway through a nod the man sneers and his eyes, once calm, blaze a cool unearthly blue, “If you do not release me –”  
> “If I do not release you, what? I would love to know seeing as you are trapped beneath me,” he states victoriously through a smirk.  
> As if triggered to prove his merit, the wolf strains against his grip. “I could kill you.”  
> Stiles fights the urge to push his head into the dirt, feeling just shy of playful in the moment. “Darling, you would be incapable of killing me even on my worst day. You certainly cannot do a thing about it now. You are practically a child.”  
> The younger man growls, annoyed. “I am no one’s darling, and I am approaching half a century, not that it is any of your concern.”  
> “As I said, practically a child,” Stiles repeats quietly, surveying him with a tad more scrutiny this time around. He certainly doesn’t look fifty. “Hmm.”  
> “What?” The wolf asks, suddenly sounding more worried – as he should – now that the gravity of the situation has settled.  
> Stiles lifts an eyebrow. “You intrigue me is all."
> 
> AND, wait for it, A surprise excerpt from a bounty hunting fic I've been working on.
> 
>    
>  _“Uh oh… I don’t know if this is good or bad.”_  
>  “What is it?” He turns slowly, eyes narrowed.  
> His beta taps at the screen quickly. “Well, Boyd thinks he might have the guy as his waiter.”  
> “Great,” he sighs and looks back through the binoculars. “Where’s he sitting?”  
> Her nails click at the glass screen again. “Mmm, he says middle, across from the bar in a booth. He’s facing us.”  
> Derek keeps his eyes on the table for five minutes until someone rolls around. He adjusts the clarity and squints. “Him? He’s just –”  
> “What?” Erica wonders idly, hardly looking up from where she’s begun to pick at her nails.  
> He’s too busy sizing the kid up to figure out what the **what** is. There’s something about him that makes Derek’s skin – not crawl but – he doesn’t know yet. All he does know is that this isn’t what he was expecting.  
>  From the one-minute Derek had to look him over, through very expensive binoculars, he’s gathered the following: This isn’t a kid. That’s not to say that his mark isn’t the age that’s been advertised, it’s just that this guy is, more or less, well defined. He might not look it at first glance, but Derek can tell he’s got lean muscle and can probably run pretty quickly for a human.  
> Expanding on what the mark doesn’t look like, well, he doesn’t look like a threat, but Derek can tell that’s a façade. He drops things and bumps tables, spilling things on both himself and others, he’s even broken a cup, but it all looks practiced. Only happens around certain booths.


End file.
